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beggars with. Away we all flies to the starn, and sure enough, there
was the rope as taut as nothing. We pulled and hauled, but it was
no go; so at last we gave it a turn round the capstan, and all hands
were ready to toe it merrily round; but devil a bit of a round could
they go, for the more they pushed the more he pulled. He must
have had pretty tough muscle to stand against a stiff breeze and the
whole ship’s crew—but he did, and beat us too. So at last the
skipper ordered the carpenter to cut the rope—and so he did. But,
my eyes! no sooner was it cut than away goes the barkey at such a
rate, for two hours, that we thought we should have lost every stick.
Howsomever, the shark got nothing by his move, for I met one Bill
Jones, some years after, which had been cruising in them seas, and
he says that there is a atomy of a shark, as goes diving about like
one demented, with an iron hook, and a hundred fathom of cable
hanging to his jaws, so that he hasn’t disgested ’em yet.”
The young girl, when she started, was weeping most bitterly, and
sobbed as though her heart would break. Being a stranger, I dared
not intrude upon her sorrow, but I longed to speak comfort to the
poor wanderer. To take one shade of grief from a sorrowing heart,
affords me more sincere pleasure, than all the luxuries of a winter
campaign, however brilliant it may be. The sight of her grief brought
on a train of thought, and suggested the following lines to my
mind: —

What makes thy bosom heave, thy tears o’erflow,

Say, hast thou ever felt the throb of wo?
Has sorrow ever come, fair girl, to thee,
To dash thy cup of joy with misery?
But such is life!—too sure the brightest sky
That ever beamed to bless a mortal eye,
Must pass away;
The sweetest flower that ever yet has bloomed,
By Nature’s law, is all too early doomed
To know decay.
 Has she, the idol of thy friendship, proved
A traitress, where she fondly vowed she loved?
Or is it but affection’s tear,
That falls at leaving friends so dear?
Grievest thou to leave this lovely scene,
Where all thy early joys have been,
Thy youthful hours?
Where thou hast frolicked through the days,
With childhood’s many pleasant ways,
In summer bowers?

What, weeping still? believe ’tis folly

To give full way to melancholy.
Youth should be as an April day,
Then smiles should chase those tears away;
For if in youth deep sorrows come,
Oh, where shall mem’ry find a home,
In after years,
To linger on, and raise a smile,
Amidst the world’s deceit and guile,
And other cares?

Say, hast thou left thy parents dear,

And need their smiles thy heart to cheer?
For all these woes there is a cure —
They never can ’gainst Time endure.
If one of these is not thy grief,
Then cannot Time bring thee relief;
For should it prove,
What now I deem thy cause for cares,
There is no cure in after years
For hopeless love.

I accosted the youth, whose appearance so interested me, and

found him intelligent, but of a wildly romantic turn of mind, on which
fancy might work her wildest spells. He told me that he was a
musician, and proceeding to the metropolis to get his works
published. Without friends or connections, I greatly feared—for I
know something of these publishers—that his speculations would
prove but a source of annoyance to him, without yielding him any
profitable return. I offered to give him letters of introduction to my
friends, to introduce him to my circle of acquaintance, and it was
extensive; in short to be a patron to him in his outset of life. But,
with expressions of fervent gratitude, he modestly declined my
assistance, saying, “that he had determined to rely solely on his own
resources, to depend upon no one, but to let whatever talent he
possessed make a road to fortune for itself.” How confident is youth!
How trusting in its own powers. He fancied that he knew, and was
prepared for all the delays and disappointments endured by those
who have to dance attendance upon the all-powerful publishers.
However, while we were taking refreshments, I wrote a note to one
of my most powerful friends, an amateur devotedly attached to the
study of music, and prevailed upon him to accept it, and made him
promise to use it if he did not find fortune so smiling as he expected.
I gave him my address when we parted, and begged him to
remember me when he was in need of a sincere friend.
Shortly after this, business called me to the Continent, and, being
there, I was induced to make a tour of Europe, which detained me
abroad some years. On my return I made inquiries about him; but all
I could learn was, that he had published many beautiful
compositions, and was looked upon as one whose genius promised
greatly for the future. At one time he seemed fortunate and
prosperous, but for some months past he had disappeared; no
tidings could be learned of him, and it was supposed that he had left
London.
I had not been in town many weeks, when one evening a person
brought me a note from Ernest Moreton, requesting me to visit him
immediately. I followed the bearer of the message, through many
low streets in the neighborhood of Fleet street, until we arrived at a
narrow, wretched-looking court. In a small, dark room, without
furniture, on a miserable couch, lay my poor friend. He pressed my
hand, and a sad smile passed over his wan, emaciated features, as I
seated myself upon the only chair in the room, by his side. Poor
fellow! he was, indeed, sadly changed! From the confident and
aspiring youth, eager in the pursuit of fame, and strong in hope, I
beheld him shrunk to the miserable occupant of a sick, untended
bed. Where now are all those bright delusive dreams which thy too
warm fancy wove? Have they not all faded into nothingness? Alas!
do they not always fade?
“My friend,” he said, “I see by your countenance that you think
me much changed since our parting. I am also aware of it; but you
do not think me so ill as I really am. Dear sir, I feel that I am dying,
and rapidly will life’s flame be extinguished. But do not mourn for
me, my friend; it does not grieve me now. There was a time, indeed,
when youth’s delusions were strong within me; when ambition and
love struggled for mastery, and quite bewildered my too excitable
imagination with glorious dreams of the future; that thoughts of
death seemed to fall upon my soul like a blight. But the hand of God
has been upon me; sorrow has chastened the heart that transient
prosperity had too much elated. In my home, and, as you see, not
very happy home, without a friend, without money, food, fire,
clothing, in sickness and desolation, the folly and vanity of my
pursuits have come most forcibly upon me. I am much altered;
though nothing can banish from my breast the old enthusiasm for
my profession, yet ambition has now no place there. You see, even
here I have written much; but of what avail, further than as a relief
to my overburthened heart? Music holds still her spell upon me, but
hope has quite departed. I am dying of no disease, save that of a
broken heart. I have for months been wasting away; as hope upon
hope has taken flight, deeper and deeper has sunk the barbed arrow
of sorrow into my heart, and life has ebbed away, purely from the
want of a wish to live. To you, my generous friend, in this last hour I
call. With you by my side, I would breathe my last breath. I have not
power to say much more. A short account of my life you will find
amongst my papers; read it, and you will learn by what means I was
brought to this despairing state. My music you will burn; and my last
request is, that you will, if it be possible, have my body placed by
her side. Do not leave me, my friend, for the world is passing rapidly
away.”
I took his thin, white hand in mine, and the slight pressure it
returned showed how weak he was. He lay still as death; but ever
and anon a smile would illumine his countenance, as if the memory
of some happy hour shed its bright influence over his latest
moments. And he would murmur the name of Adeline, in accents so
tenderly bewailing, that it melted me to tears. “My poor girl,” he
said, “thy broken heart is now at rest; and I am coming, freed from
my many sorrows, to lie me down beside thee. I have never smiled
since you left me—my smiles were all buried with thee, Ada, in the
grave; but I am happy, now, for I come to join thee in heaven! The
tomb separated us, but the barrier is passed, and hope is mine
again.” As morning approached, his sentences grew fainter and less
frequent. As the dawn appeared he sunk into a quiet slumber, which
proved, as I feared, the sleep of death.
And thus died one, who, under happier circumstances, might
have lived honored, prosperous, and happy. Who, for want of some
true friend to regulate his wild enthusiasm—to save him from himself
—perished like a beggar, in a hovel, when his talents ought to have
secured him an independence. He belonged to a class of beings little
understood or appreciated by the world. The bright imaginings of
the poet’s mind can be understood by the million, for he writes in a
language that is common to all. But the musician pours forth his
thoughts through a medium so refined, so exquisitely delicate, that it
requires a fancy as chastely imaginative, a mind as richly stored with
bright thoughts, a soul as open to the liveliest and warmest
emotions, and stored with feelings of depth and intensity, with
emotions which have a mixed derivation—the effect of a devoted
love and reverence of mistress, parents, sisters, friends, of nature,
and of God—it requires all this to comprehend his dreamings, or to
enter in any degree into the emotions of his soul. The poet has a
thousand means by which he can place his works before the world.
Publications are appearing daily wherein their works would be gladly
received; the musician has but one—the music publisher. Those who
have had any dealings with them, can bear witness how generously
disinterested they are. No young composer can “get any thing out,”
unless he pays for it, and then, as it is of little consequence to the
publisher whether it sells or not, it is of course allotted the least
prominent place in the shop; and, saving the immediate friends of
the author, if he has any, none know that the work is in existence.
Or, if too poor to indulge in the luxury of publishing on his own
account, he offer to give some works, for the sake of their
publication, such a one is sure to be chosen as will offer the least
evidences of his capability. So he has no resource but to watch and
wait upon these mighty men, gathering a harvest of sorrow and
bitterness of heart; living through disappointments and hopes
deferred, and dying in poverty from neglect and a broken spirit.
I paid the last offices of friendship to my departed friend, and he
rests quietly beside her he so dearly loved in life. There are persons
who seem to be born for each other—whose souls own the same
emotions, the same passions excite them, the same destiny impels
them—their fates seem to be linked together by preordination. It is a
strange fact, but of the many instances which have come under my
personal observation, of hearts apparently fore-doomed for each
other, in not one case has happiness resulted. It appeared as though
they were only to love and to be wretched. So in this instance it
proved; for they were to each other as a sorrow, even while most
devoted. But they rest, now, where sorrow cannot reach them.
I shall give the short history nearly as I found it.
On entering London, my friend’s first care was to procure
lodgings in one of the most humble streets of the metropolis—the
best suited to his narrow means. When the excitement of the
change of scene had subsided, he began to feel that he was alone.
“I,” to use his own words, “wandered about the first few days, in an
ecstasy of delight; but chilling sensation of loneliness crept on
apace; I felt myself alone amidst the thousands; I looked around,
and sought in vain for one familiar face to give a smile of
recognition; not one among the million that surrounded me, would
return a friendly pressure of my hand; there were none to smile at
my prosperity, to weep at my misfortunes, or to tend me should I
sink upon a bed of sickness. I have walked amidst the loneliest
scenes of nature, where not one sign of mortality intruded; I have
wandered alone upon the barren heath; have buried myself within
the bosom of the deepest wood, have singly stood upon the lofty
mountain’s brow, but never felt that I was truly, utterly alone till
now.” After a few days he began to present himself to the notice of
the publishers. He was received with the utmost politeness by many,
and was requested to bring some of his works, that they might
judge of their merits. He left them, flushed with hopes of success,
and returned with some of his best compositions, but, unfortunately,
the gentlemen were from home. Again and again, and yet again he
called, until at last, when hope was departing, he was honored by a
hearing. The songs were “beautiful, charming,” but they feared that
they would not sell—this symphony was too long, that required
altering; these harmonies were too full, that passage was too
difficult; but if these, not perhaps faults, only publishing faults, were
altered, they would get them out for him. He left them much
depressed, and felt lowered in his own opinion—for a young and
sensitive mind is depressed or elated by the good or bad opinion of
the world. To cut and hack his songs to pieces went sorely against
his feelings. The very symphonies which the buying public would not
play, contain most frequently the most refined and choice thoughts,
and to omit these were to give forth a false impression of his talents.
But the mighty fiat had gone forth, and altered they must be.
Accordingly, he in a measure re-wrote them; but it was then found,
without a hearing, that their printers were employed for many
months to come. Thus, after keeping him months in continued
suspense, he was in every case put off with some palpable lie, or
some frivolous excuse. These annoyances, nay, misfortunes, are told
in few words, but the time of their duration was some eighteen
months.
For some months his funds had been getting alarmingly low; and
at this period he was forced to part with much of his wardrobe, his
books, and other articles. This continued until he had parted with
every thing that would procure the means of existence. “I left my
home in a state of mind bordering upon insanity. I walked rapidly,
with a scowling brow, through the crowded streets, and felt the
demon of despair brooding over my heart. I knew myself to be
disunited from my kind by misfortune; none could feel sympathy
with the starving musician; he is a being apart from the rest—let him
die! I had wandered unconsciously out of the city, and found myself
in view of the river. My soul seemed to start with joy at the sight.
Deliverance was at hand—total oblivion was within my grasp,
eternity already seemed gained, and I rushed on wildly to the banks
of the Thames. For awhile I remained gazing abstractedly upon the
darkly flowing stream, till the floodgates of memory opened upon
my soul; my happy, joyous childhood, my mother’s fond and tender
smile, my sister’s pure and deep devotion, seemed to call me back to
earth. But with my childhood, memory’s pleasures ceased. I recalled
my youth passed amidst strangers, in the cold and calculating world;
the severing by death of all those sweet endearing ties, and finally,
my manhood, barren in aught save misery, without parents, sisters,
friends, starving and desolate, my talents unappreciated, my hopes
blasted! What had I to live for? Oh! welcome then the oblivion of thy
wave, dark river! One plunge, one struggle with mortality, and the
world, with its petty, though maddening miseries, is lost forever. Oh,
if it be a sin for the soul to resume its immortality, yet surely it were
better thus to die, having some hope of forgiveness, than starving,
die. Parting with life inch by inch; enduring days of mortal agony, till
the overburthened soul, cursing its Maker, dies despairing. I took out
my pocket-book, to pencil a short note to the owner of my wretched
home, begging her to accept my small stock of worldly goods as a
remuneration for her slight pecuniary loss, when, as I opened it to
tear from it a leaf, a letter fell upon the ground. I snatched it up; a
gleam of hope flashed upon my soul. It was the letter of introduction
given to me by my generous friend of a day. I felt the hand of
heaven had interposed between me and damnation. The magnitude
of the crime I was about to commit came fully before me; my
feelings softened, my soul melted into tears; and on my knees, with
a heart bowed down by misfortune, and filled with feelings of
remorse and gratitude, I poured forth my prayers and thanks to
God.”
 He returned home once more, with a heart humbled and
trusting. In the morning he waited upon the gentleman to whom the
note was addressed, and was received in the kindest manner. He led
him to speak of his prospects, and asked why the letter had not
been delivered before. My poor friend then related how he had relied
upon his talents, and recounted all the misfortunes and
disappointments which had befallen him. Mr. Singleton seemed much
touched by the recital, and begged him to dine with him that day,
and in the meantime he would think how he could assist him. With
expressions of gratitude Moreton took his departure. The events of
the party had better be told in his own words. “On reaching Mr.
Singleton’s house, I was introduced to his daughter, a creature so
lovely, that to gaze upon was to adore. Of the middle stature, with a
form of the most perfect symmetry; her face was oval, with a
complexion neath which the warm blood came and went, as warm
tints play upon the snow-crowned Alps. An intellectual brow, sad and
contemplative; with eyes of great beauty, bespeaking a depth and
intensity of passion, whose wildest fires were hidden, and were only
to be roused by the emotions of the soul. There was some
unutterable charm about every movement of her form or features
which entranced me. I felt at once that I had found my destiny, and
therefore did not attempt to place any restraint upon my feelings. I
could not deny myself the luxury of drinking in love with her every
look or word. I felt myself urged toward her by an irresistible
impulse, and did not, therefore, attempt to check it. In the evening,
Mr. Singleton begged me to publish a song, and dedicate it to him,
and said that he should like me to overlook the musical studies of his
daughter. Had the proudest fortune been placed at my disposal, it
would not have inspired me with the deep joy this privilege
bestowed upon me. I should then be near her; should see her often,
and be blessed by a smile from those speaking eyes. The past was
all forgotten. The sorrows of my past life were all merged in dreams
of future happiness.
“In the course of the evening I was introduced to the nephew of
my host, a low-browed youth, with a keen grey eye, and a look of
habitual cunning, but poorly concealed under a manner of assumed
frankness. Months, nay, two years passed away, and found me still
attending at the house. My prospects were much improved. I had
many pupils, and the few things I had published were highly spoken
of. Those years were passed in a state of intoxicating delight. I lived
but for her; it was her image that inspired me when I wrote; it was
ever before me, and formed at once my blessing and my bane.
When I thought of the immense distance which wealth had placed
between us, I felt how utterly hopeless was my love—and I was
wretched. Then it was that music came to my aid. I would sit for
hours at my piano, and in its harmony forget all else beside. While
there, what are to me the pomp and luxury of the rich and great?
What to me their parties and their feastings? Do they enjoy for one
moment the blissful rapture which fills my heart then? Do they revel
in rapture, purged of all earthly grossness? These are the
remunerating moments of a musician’s wretched life. The soul
seems floating in an atmosphere of delicious harmony; a sad but
pleasing melancholy comes on; a grateful languor falls upon his
heart, and softens it to happiness. How indefinable those feelings;
the emotions then felt have no sympathy with things that be; the
present has no connection with it; it is like the dream of some dim,
far-off land of beauty, the mortal eye never saw, but with which the
memory of the soul seems charged. I cannot word the feeling—it is
nameless.”
But I must bring the history to a conclusion. A month or two
after the date of the last quotation, he was tempted to declare his
love, which, to his great joy, was returned with an ardor equal to his
own. He had gained her heart’s first love—her young heart’s deep
devotion was his, and given with a fervor which nothing could
exceed. For months they enjoyed uninterrupted happiness, when,
after a short illness, her father died. His property was left entirely,
saving an annuity to the nephew, to Adeline, with this proviso, that if
she died without heirs, the whole was to revert to the nephew.
Expressing at the same time a wish that their fortunes should be
united. Time wore on, and at the end of the mourning, Adeline
promised to wed Moreton. Her cousin had, by every means in his
power, endeavored to gain possession of her hand, but had met with
a decided refusal, and to avoid further persecution, Adeline left
London on a visit for a few months. The lovers parted with every
expression of tenderness and unalterable affection—but they parted
to meet no more in happiness. Her cousin, Arlington, maddened by
the indignant refusal he had met with, and the probable loss of the
property, determined to use every means in his power to frustrate
the intended marriage. This he was enabled to effect, by bribing the
waiting-maid of Adeline. She was, indeed, the confidant of her
mistress. From childhood had she lived with her, and had been
treated more as an humble friend than a servant. Many and sore
were the poor girl’s struggles of conscience, but the offered reward
was too much for honesty to resist, and she fell. A few weeks after
Adeline’s departure, Moreton was seized with an illness which proved
to be a malignant fever, at that time very prevalent, which confined
him to his bed for many weeks. No letters came to him. Between the
wanderings of his mind at the fever’s height, he would ask for the
letters from Adeline, his wife, and would not believe but that they
were kept from him. As health began, though slowly, to come, he
wrote to Adeline, telling her of his illness, and complaining of her
neglect; to which he received in reply a renouncement of every vow,
at the same time declining any further correspondence with the
fortune-hunter. The shock occasioned by this letter, so unexpected
and so cruel, acting upon a constitution debilitated by a long illness,
brought on an inflammatory fever, which rendered him helpless for
months. As he recovered, his landlady, a good old babbling soul,
used to bring the newspapers and read to him in the hope to divert
his mind, and rouse him from his habitual melancholy. He listened,
for he would not hurt the feelings of one who had been as a mother
to him during his long illness. One morning she read, among other
things, that “Miss Adeline Singleton, the rich heiress, would be led to
the hymenial altar by her cousin, Alfred Arlington, Esq., to-morrow
morning at Hanover Church.” Ernest scarcely started, but begged for
the paper, and to be left alone. His course was fixed. . . .
. . . .
The bride and bridegroom approached the altar! Ah! never was
there a sadder bride—the roses that were placed upon her brow
were not more pale than she. Life held but a slight tenure in that fair
form, for the hectic spot upon her cheek betrayed that the grave
was not far distant. The priest had raised his voice to breathe the
prayer that was to join their hands forever, when a form was seen
hastening up the aisle, with a tottering and uncertain step—he
approached the altar; with a wild, haggard and death-like look,
gazed upon the bride, and uttering her name sunk at her feet. The
poor girl shrieked out, “Ernest!” and swooned in the arms of her
bridemaids. She was carried to her home, never to stir from thence,
but to a quieter home—the grave. Moreton, who had left his sick
couch to meet her at the altar, was removed to his dwelling, and for
three days remained in a state of listless stupor. On the fourth day, a
note from Adeline, begging him to come to her, roused him from his
lethargy, and, reckless of consequences, he complied with her
request. With a beating heart he entered the house; he found her
reclining on a couch, with the traces of recent tears upon her
cheeks, and very, very pale. On seeing him a bright smile irradiated
her countenance; he approached not—anger and love were
struggling in his breast for mastery. She held out her hands to him
and murmured, “dear Ernest!” Love had triumphed! he was kneeling
by her side. Then came that outpouring of the heart—that blissful
confidence; sighs, tears, and deep regrets spoken by each, removed
ages of sorrow from their hearts.
On the disastrous termination of the wedding, the faithless
servant, conscience-stricken, disclosed the whole of the scene of
heartless treachery acted by her at the instigation of the villain
Arlington. How she, assisted by him, had intercepted letters; written
others in their place, and, by a system of the most artful deception,
contrived to make Moreton appear despicable, and to raise
Arlington, in the estimation of Adeline. The continued illness of
Moreton materially assisted their plot, as he could not defend
himself. His guilt and falsehood were made so apparent, that Adeline
could not doubt their existence, and with a woman’s heart, as quick
in revenge as in love, and unswerving in both, in mortified pride and
wounded feelings, she gave her consent to marry her cousin. But
now all doubts were at an end, and they could smile again and hope
for the future.
Too true is it, that even in life we are in the midst of death! The
thought of Moreton’s falsehood had fixed sorrow too deeply in her
heart for health to live there too. During their separation, after the
scheming of the plotters began to take effect, she sought earnestly
to banish every feeling of love from her heart. But who shall control
the heart—a woman’s heart? Her love is not a thing of calculation;
she looks not to external circumstances; she asks not even if he be
worthy of her affection. If once her love be given, it is given without
reserve. The whole volume of that mighty and absorbing passion is
laid at his feet. Her all of earthly happiness is placed in his
possession; no other passion divides with it the interest of her heart;
no other feelings or sensations, save those which have their rise in
this all-powerful passion, can dwell therein. All ties of relationship or
friendship are trifling, compared to that tie which binds her heart to
his, and sink to nothing in the scale when opposed to it. To him she
awards all the attributes of virtue and honor; friends may condemn
him; fortune may leave him; the present may be a blank, and the
future without a hope, but she clings only the closer to him. She
feels a sort of selfish joy at being his only comfort; the only thing left
him to love, that leads her almost to rejoice in the misfortunes which
make her his all in all. Her heart teems with exhaustless affection,
that only flows more freely the more sorrow assails the object of her
love. Though where this deep feeling exists it must be paramount,
yet the correlative passions of self-love and jealousy are also there;
and though dormant when no exciting cause is in action, yet, when
aroused, they go near to banish love forever from the heart,
however deeply based. Adeline’s self-love had been aroused most
powerfully; the thought of being loved only for her wealth galled her
proud, but warm and confiding soul.
Here at once were scattered all her most cherished hopes. She
had hitherto looked upon life as a bright and happy dream, thinking
but to wake from it when the grave should have opened to her
dazzled sight the glories of our heavenly home. But now the veil was
torn aside, and cold deceit was placed before her view, which had
hitherto only looked on love and joy. To be thus suddenly awoke
from the beautiful but fallacious dreamings which our first love ever
weaves around us: to have the world with all its selfishness thrust
thus rudely upon our shuddering hearts, is hard indeed. No shock of
after years can ever equal its intensity. All the ties and pleasant
memories that our past life has created are at once severed; the
past has no connection with the present; one is all dream, the other
stern and rugged truth. It is not, then, to be wondered at, that so
frail a thing as a woman’s heart, under the feeling of her first and
only love, should sink beneath the disruption of all her fondest
wishes. The idol she worshiped has been unsanctified; its altar
desecrated, and her heart lies shattered at its feet, a useless
sacrifice. And the same spirit which led her to give her hand to
another, to hide from the common gaze her hopeless sufferings, was
silently, but surely, undermining her health, and sowing the seeds of
that remorseless disease which in a few months removed her broken
spirit from its earthly travail. . . . . . .
The disease rapidly assumed a more alarming aspect. Physicians
were called in; they advised a change of climate, but at the same
time feared that nothing could save her life. She felt that hope was
past, and refused to leave her home. For the few months she lived,
Ernest never left her. The days were passed in performing acts of
the tenderest solicitude, and the nights in feverish slumbers, whose
visions showed him his Adeline in all her former loveliness, and
pictured forth scenes of deep and holy love, such as might have
been his, had Heaven so willed it, only to sink him deeper in despair
by the contrast the waking truth presented.
He would read to her the wild and visionary tales of Germany,
and her eyes would brighten as she listened to some speculative but
beautiful theory of the future, or she would clasp his hand within her
own, and gaze up into his eyes with unspeakable affection, as she
listened to some tale of deep devotion, and murmur out, “they must
have loved as we love.” She would listen to his music for hours, with
a breathless attention, absorbed and unconscious of the passing
time, as if unwilling to lose one note of that harmony which must
soon sound for her in vain. Nothing so heightens and refines the
passion of love as music; that passion which would be firm and
vigorous without its aid, becomes under its influence more refined,
luxurious, more blissful, more yielding, but not less holy. All
grossness and sensuality are purged from it; the heart is softened to
languor, but at the same time etherealized.
Thus days and weeks flew rapidly on unmarked; each day adding
to their deep devotion, and lessening the time to that day which was
to separate them forever in this world. It came at last.
The morning had been unusually overcast. Not an air stirred, and
the atmosphere was sultry and oppressive. They had felt a vague
sensation, such as is experienced previous to some unknown
calamity, all the morning, which prevented them following their usual
occupations. Adeline looked unusually well; there was a flush upon
her lovely cheek, and her eye beamed with unwonted brightness.
They had drawn the sofa to the window, which looked upon a
charming lawn, and was thrown open as a relief to the sultriness of
the weather. They sat there, his one hand holding her waist, the
other clasping her slender hands. Her cheek rested upon his
shoulder, and oh! as he gazed upon that cheek, what a gush of
tenderness filled his heart! He thought what a scene of misery his
life had been until she rose upon his sight, an angel of light,
dispelling all grief and sorrow. He thought of what they had suffered
for each other; her deep devotion; her unswerving love; her pure
and classic mind; her virtuous principles; her beauty, whose spell
was now upon his heart; the scenes of dreamy bliss they had passed
together, and the whole intensity of his love filled his heart almost to
bursting. All that the mind can imagine of the extremest joy,
thankfulness, hope and love, was concentrated in that one fond
look. She seemed to understand the thoughts that were passing in
his mind, and as he stooped to kiss those murmuring lips she
pressed his hand to her throbbing heart, and a tear, the offspring of
feelings too deep for expression, stole slowly and silently down her
glowing cheek. At that moment the sun shone suddenly forth, and
brightened again the face of nature. Till then they had not spoken.
“Dear Adeline,” he said, “let this be an omen of the future, as the
preceding gloom was of the past. There are, believe me, many
happy years in store for us. The bloom of health is mantling upon
your cheeks, and there is new vigor in the sparkling of your eyes;
and though this little and transparent hand, be but the shadow of its
former self, will not the summer’s genial warmth, and the tranquillity
that waits upon reciprocated love, and unclouded prosperity, soon,
very soon restore it? I have a strange sensation at my heart, which
your altered appearance translates into a precursor of happiness. My
spirit seems to have burst from the trammels of earth, and to revel
in an atmosphere where love and hope are fadeless. You do not
smile, love! Does not your heart echo my joy? Does not the same
happy presentiment pervade your heart, and gild the future in
brilliant colors?”
“I have the same presentiment, but my heart refuses to give to it
the flattering meaning with which your hopes have invested it. I
always feared that our love was doomed never to meet with happy
consummation. Even in the first hours of our passion, when not one
thought of grief should have intruded, there was a fear that would
not leave me, of future sorrow. Our love was never meant for
happiness on earth; it was too exclusive—too perfect. The future
would hold out no attraction or hope, did death rudely destroy the
state of present perfect bliss. But to the weary and heavy-hearted,
death opens a path to peace, and even to the happy and joyful, a
home of more blissful and lasting happiness. I look on death as a
kind and tender friend, who releases my soul from its weak material
companion, which, with its decay and rottenness, clogs that
immortal part. That it separates me from thee is my only grief; my
poor heart rebels against it, and clings to thee with a tenacity which
nothing can relax. But oh! my beloved, if, as we are told, the infinite
space is peopled with disembodied spirits, who wander round those
spots where centers all they loved—all that life has rendered dear,
shall I not be with you ever? Sleeping or waking, I will hover round
you, and as you wander over those spots sacred to our young
hearts’ deep devotion, I will be upon your heart as I am now; my
spirit shall be upon your memory, and awaken it to thoughts of
those passionate hours. I will throw a charmed halo round the Past,
will sweeten the Present, and will gild the Future with visions of
fadeless bliss in heaven with our God. Death cannot separate our
souls! It shrinks the body into dust, but there is an immortal link
which binds soul unto soul, that death can never break.”
As she uttered these words, her cheek became flushed, her eyes
brightened, and her whole air partook of a spiritual grace, and a
deep and holy enthusiasm. There was something unearthly in her
look and manner that chilled the heart of Ernest. At length with a
voice faltering with emotion, he replied, “Whatever be the end of
these forebodings, dear Ada, my heart is unchangeably yours. You
are my first love, the chosen of my heart, and living or in the grave,
I dedicate that heart to you alone. No other being shall have a vow
of mine—this hand shall clasp no other hand in love—no other lip
shall join to mine with passion’s kiss—no other form shall rest within
these arms, or find a pillow on my troubled breast; this I swear to
you, by all my hopes of our eternal joy hereafter. I will live and die
your own in heart and thought. And let this fond and holy kiss seal
my vow of eternal constancy.” He imprinted a long and ardent kiss
upon her paling lips. The tears coursed each other rapidly down her
pale cheeks, for the false hectic bloom had fled, and the ravages of
the fell disease were now terribly visible in her sunken cheeks—her
heart beat convulsively at intervals—she pressed him closer to her,
and gazing up into his face with a look in which the whole intensity
of her mighty and absorbing love was centered, in a voice scarcely
audible from emotion, she murmured out—“I could die now.” Again
his lips sought hers, and clung there as though they had been
incorporate—her head drooped upon his breast—her hand relaxed
its grasp—she had died then! . . . . . . . . .
How he died, I have before related.
 REVIEW OF NEW BOOKS.

Past and Present, and Chartism. By Thomas Carlyle. New

York: Wiley & Putnam. 2 parts, 12mo.

In these works Carlyle states his views regarding the source and
character of the evils afflicting the British nation, and the means by
which they may be mitigated and removed. “Past and Present” is the
most splendidly written and carefully meditated of the two. It
contains many sentences of remarkable force and beauty, with
numerous touches of that savage humor peculiar to Carlyle. The
tone of the work, however, is one of perfect discontent. The style
bristles with the author’s usual extravagance about society and
government, declaring both to be shams and unveracities, and
sneering at all plans for improvement which the ingenuity or
benevolence of others have framed. If we understand Carlyle aright,
he considers that the constitutional government of England is a
humbug; that William the Conqueror, and Oliver Cromwell were the
best governors that England has ever had; that since Cromwell’s
time the country has been governed by Sir Jahesh Windbag, strong
in no faith but that “paragraphs and plausibilities will bring votes;”
and that everybody is a fool or a flunkey except Thomas Carlyle. He
hates every form of government which it is possible to establish in
this world—democracy among the rest. If his work may be said to
have any practical bearing on politics, it is this—that a governor is
wanted with force enough to assume arbitrary power, and exercise it
according to the dreams of mystics and sentimentalists. His system
is a compound of anarchy and despotism. His ideal of a governor is
of a man, with an incapacity or indisposition to explain himself, who
rises up some day and cries—“the government of this country is a
lie, the people cannot make it a reality, but I can and will.” His notion
of the wretched condition of society is disheartening enough. Man,
he tells us, has lost all the soul out of him. “This is verily the plague-
spot—centre of the universal social gangrene, threatening all
modern things with frightful death. You touch the focal-centre of all
our disease, of our frightful nosology of diseases, when you lay your
hand on this. There is no religion; there is no God; man has lost his
soul, and vainly seeks antiseptic salt. Vainly: in killing kings, in
passing Reform Bills, in French Revolutions, Manchester
Insurrections, is found no remedy. The foul elephantine leprosy
reappears in new force and desperateness next hour.” Sad condition
of poor depraved humanity! A whole generation, except one man,
without souls, and that one exception without his senses! It is
curious to notice the illusions of an understanding so powerful when
governed by a sensibility so tempestuous. It would be unjust,
however, to deny the depth of many detached thoughts, and truth of
some of his speculations in this volume.
It would doubtless be unjust to deny Carlyle’s claim to be
considered a thinker, but he is an intense rather than a calm and
comprehensive one. A comprehensive thinker looks at every thing,
not singly, but in its relations; an intense thinker seizes hold of some
particular thing, exaggerates it out of its proper place in the
economy of the world, and looks at every thing in its relation to his
own hobby. In reasoning on the evils of society and government, it is
useless to growl or snarl at what you desire to improve. If a man
cannot look an evil in the face without rushing off into rage at its
prevalence, and considering that evil as the root of all others, he will
do little for reform. Indeed, Carlyle appears to us to find delight in
getting the world into a corner. Nothing pleases him more than to
shoot a sarcasm at statesmen and philanthropists who are grappling
practically with some abuse; in this way warning everybody to avoid
particular medicines, and come to him for an universal panacea.
Thus his works on social evils are substantially little more than
savage jests at the depravity of mankind, and contemptuous fleers
at those who are attempting to mitigate it. It is needless to remark
that he is not always consistent; but this, it seems to us, is the
general character of his political writings. He criticises human life as
he would a play or a novel, and looks to his own taste alone in
passing his judgments.
Many objections have been made to Carlyle’s style. Now style, to
be good for any thing, should be characteristic of the writer; and
certainly Carlyle’s style, viewed in this light, is very good. It is an
exponent of himself. The fault lies in the man, not in the style. Those
who contrast the diction of the Life of Schiller with Past and Present,
should recollect that a change as great has occurred in the character
of the author. No other style than his present could fully express the
whole meaning of his thoughts. Most of his ideas are commonplace
enough in themselves; and their originality consists in the peculiar
modification they have received from his own mind.

The Constitutional History of England from the Accession of

Henry VII. to the Death of George II. By Henry Hallam.
From the Fifth London edition. New York: Harper &
Brothers. 1 vol. 8vo.

This great work was originally published in 1827. Since that

period the author has made many additions to it. The present
edition is printed from the latest London issue, in 1846, and is
therefore the best and most complete edition in the country. The
Harpers have printed it in clear, readable type, on good paper, and
have placed it at a price so moderate as to bring it within the means
of the humblest student. Of the value and importance of the work it
is hardly necessary to speak, as it has forced reluctant praise even
from those whose principles and policy it condemns. It has taken a
prominent place among those standard books which no library can
be supposed to be without. There are probably few books since
Adam Smith’s Wealth of Nations, which have equaled this in the task
of demolishing prejudice, and guiding public opinion aright. The
space of political history which the volume occupies, has long been
the battle-ground of opposing sects, factions, and parties. Historians,
who have explored it most successfully, have generally been unduly
influenced by their political or religious prejudices, in their accounts
of events and estimates of persons. The Whig and the Tory, the
Catholic, the Churchman, and the Puritan, each has bent the truth of
history to the purposes of party, and accommodated, like poets, the
shows of things to the desires of the mind. This has turned English
political history into historical romance. Cranmer, Burleigh, Charles I.,
Strafford, Laud, Hampden, Cromwell, Sidney, Marlborough, Somers,
Sunderland, have been so often passed from the partisan who daubs
to the partisan who damns, as to appear like the heroes of bad
novels, rather than mortal men.
Mr. Hallam has been especially able and courageous in his
opposition to all this perversion of facts and character. Though
himself a moderate Whig, and a sturdy friend of the popular element
of the Constitution, he is as remorseless in breaking the idols of the
Whigs as of the Tories. He holds no terms with the declamation of
either side; and, indeed, takes a peculiar delight in weighing in his
impartial scales every English politician who has been the object of
stereotyped admiration or hatred. Parties naturally individualize their
principles, and depend a good deal for their influence on the
character of their great men, and the charm of their catch-phrases.
They naturally dislike that their saints and martyrs should be
subjected to calm scrutinizing criticism, and deprived of their
exaggerated virtues, and exhibited, naked and shivering, to the
profane eyes of the crowd. Mr. Hallam, from his mind and
disposition, was admirably calculated to perform this work well.
Without doing positive injustice to any statesman, and heartily
praising all who have labored in their generation for the public good,
he has considered truth of more importance than the service of
party, and has not spared the excesses of tyranny and fanaticism,
even when committed by the champions of freedom and toleration.
Many a fine bubble, blown up to a beautiful magnitude by the breath
of political superstition, bursts the moment it feels the prick of his
pen, and is “resolved into its elemental suds.” A critic very happily
characterizes his work as eminently judicial. “Its whole spirit is that
of the bench, not of the bar. He sums up with a calm, steady
impartiality, turning neither to the right nor the left, glossing over
nothing, exaggerating nothing, while the advocates on both sides
are alternately biting their lips to hear their conflicting mis-
statements and sophisms exposed.”

Clarsach Albin, and Other Poems. By James M. Morrison.

Including his Correspondence with Clark, McCammon,
and Longlap. Phila.: Zieber & Co.

We advise those who understand the Scottish dialect to read this

unpretending little book. The subjects of the poems are not such as
to excite much attention, and the interest of the very clever rhyming
correspondence carried on by the author with Messrs. Clark,
McCammon, and Longlap, must, of course, be in a great measure
evanescent; but there is a sly humor, a readiness of rhythm, and
very often a burst of pure poetical feeling, which will repay the
reader. While we thank him for this little book, from which we have
derived much pleasure, the author will allow us to say, that he is
capable of far better things; and we hope to have from his pen, at
some future day, a collection of pure lyrics, in good broad Scotch,
both serious and playful.

Feudal Times; or the Court of James the Third. A Scottish

Historical Play. By Rev. James White. New York: William
Taylor & Co.

The merits of this play consist in the general vigor of its style, the
elevation of its sentiment, and the bustle of its action. It appears
well calculated to succeed in representation. The characters,
however, and many of the incidents, show little invention or
imagination; and the whole drama presents greater evidence of the
playwright than the dramatist. Compared, however, with the usual
run of plays, and tested by the rather gentle rules now applied to
dramatic compositions, it would honorably pass muster. The interest
centres in Cochrane and Margaret, two lofty natures, placed among
a herd of feudal barons, and becoming their victims. There are many
striking passages of poetry in the play.

Aunt Kitty’s Tales. By Maria J. McIntosh. New York: D.

Appleton & Co. 1 vol. 12mo.

The authoress of these pleasant stories has won a deserved

celebrity by her novel, entitled “To Seem and To Be”—a book which
deserves a high place among works on practical morals. The present
volume is designed more particularly for the young, and, we trust,
will find its way to that interesting portion of society. We cordially
join in Aunt Kitty’s wish that her efforts for the improvement of her
young friends will not prove unsuccessful, and that her stories will be
found “not altogether unworthy teachers of those lessons of
benevolence and truth, generosity, justice, and self-government,
which she designed to convey through them.”

Streaks of Squatter Life, and Far-West Scenes. By John S.

Robb. Phila.: Carey & Hart. 1 vol. 12mo.

These sketches, hastily dashed off in a few hours of the author’s

leisure from engrossing business, show quite an eye for character,
and are exceedingly amusing. With more care in composition, and a
higher aim, Mr. Robb might write a fine humorous novel. The
“Streaks” in this volume are full of life, but they are too coarse.
Every writer in this style would do well to study the art with which
Dickens delineates the lowest and most vulgar characters, without
any sacrifice either of taste or propriety.
 Modern Chivalry, or the Adventures of Captain Farrago and
Teage O’Regan. By H. H. Breckenridge. Phila.: Carey &
Hart. 2 vols. 12mo.

This novel belongs to Carey & Hart’s Library of Humorous

American Works. It is a reprint of an old book. The style is clear and
familiar, the humor such as touches the risibilities, and the strokes of
satire sometimes peculiarly happy. Though the author formed
himself on the model of Fielding, the allusions and subject matter
are essentially American. The illustrations by Darley are excellent.
Like all true humorists the author makes his pleasantries the vehicle
of knowledge and wisdom. He has sound political maxims embodied
in jokes, and curious bits of learning swimming on the surface of his
humor.
 LE FOLLET
Boulevart St. Martin, 61.

Chapeaux de Mme. Penet, r. Nve. St. Augustin, 4,—Plumes et fleurs

de Mme. Tilman, r. Ménars, 5;
Robes de Palmyre;—Dentelles de Violard, r. de Choiseul, 2 bis.;
 Ombrelle de Lemarechal, bt. Montmartre, 17.

Graham’s Magazine.

Transcriber’s Notes:
Table of Contents has been added for reader convenience. Archaic
spellings and hyphenation have been retained. Punctuation and
obvious type-setting errors have been corrected without note. Other
errors have been corrected as noted below. For illustrations, some
caption text may be missing or incomplete due to condition of the
originals available for preparation of the eBook. A cover has been
created for this eBook and is placed in the public domain.

page 332, ce que tu mange, ==> ce que tu manges,

page 333, will soon loose her ==> will soon lose her
page 335, true diplomate will ==> true diplomat will
page 344, They had drank of ==> They had drunk of
page 346, pay the exhorbitant ==> pay the exorbitant
page 347, lady rung the bell ==> lady rang the bell
page 347, own and her childrens’ ==> own and her children’s
page 351, quarter of the word, ==> quarter of the world,
page 356, than he out knife and ==> than he pulled out a knife and
page 363, built of sold timber ==> built of solid timber
page 360, added [To be continued.
page 375, barren in ought save ==> barren in aught save
page 375, by an irresistable impulse, ==> by an irresistible impulse,
Le Follet, Chapeau de Mme. ==> Chapeaux de Mme.

[End of Graham's Magazine, Vol. XXX, No. 6, June 1847]

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